Fever
by Blonded
Summary: The Joker just arrived at Arkham: let the madness begin. A different take on the Joker x Harley relationship.
1. Ward 0651

_Author's Note: So I thought I'd toy a little with the Joker. Judging from some of the story summaries, there are some god-awful Joker/OC fics going on, and I wanted to set that whole tendency on edge. I also thought I'd take a different route from the overdone Joker/Harley Quinn plotline. So here's my creation. I would love to hear (or read, I guess) any feedback you people have for me. I live for detailed, intelligent criticism--so please, if I'm doing something wrong with characterization, plot, whatever: don't hold back. Or, you know, if you are just enjoying the story--I like to hear that, too! _

_Disclaimer: Funny story, I'm not old enough to have created the original_ Batman, _and I'm definitely not Christopher Nolan. So...if you had brief delusions of me owning the rights to the canon characters, I'm sorry to disappoint. They're not mine._

* * *

**Fever.**

_Everybody's got the fever  
That is something you all know  
Fever isn't such a new thing  
Fever started long ago_

* * *

**_Ward 0651_**

She kind of reminded him of that girl in the movies who just needs to take her hair out of the bun and get a set of contacts to be sexy, only she wasn't. He'd seen her without the librarian hair-do, without the glasses--without anything, actually--and she still had that stiff, awkward air. She had the potential to be hot, but she just didn't want to be. Even when she was naked with her hair down, she seemed all-brains, all-business. So he decided she was just one of those girls who wasn't sexy. It didn't stop him from screwing her.

He didn't particularly like her as a person--but then he really didn't like too many people, anyway. He liked that she was young and an intern, and that she actually believed that laying down and taking it from him would somehow further her psychiatric career. And he liked her ass in a pencil skirt--_when_ she wore a pencil skirt, which was entirely too rare an occurance for his liking. He'd told her to wear more skirts. He'd even told her she looked pretty on the days she wore skirts (which, essentially, was a lie, because the only part of her that was actually stunning on those days was her ass), but she still put on some bulky trousers that made her look asexual from the waist down and really did nothing for him.

Even her undergarments were boring. A whole year she'd been interning here--six months of which he'd been fucking her--and he had yet to see a thong or lacy little something underneath her grandma clothes. White cotton. She couldn't even venture into colored underwear--not even black. He could probably settle for black. Black was sexy. But no. She wore white: Fruit-of-the-Loom, to be exact. He'd checked one time, hoping maybe, _possibly_, she'd at least stepped foot in a Victoria's Secret. But the woman absolutely scorned sexiness. It seemed like she scorned sex, and he was pretty sure she scorned him, too.

But she hadn't turned him down yet. And as long as she was going to keep putting out, he wasn't going to stop. He wasn't suave or charming; he wasn't the standardly handsome type that's garaunteed to get laid on a regular basis. So even if she _was _dowdy and boring, and even if she _did _hate him, he was going to take what he could get.

When he saw her blurred form through the fogged glass of his office door, he already had an inkling of what she wanted. He knew it was her because she was the only woman over the age of six that walked that awkwardly in heels--and he knew she was planning to consent to a little quid pro quo because she was wearing the heels in the first place. She knocked on the door and he told her to come in, and there she was.

She stood a little taller than average in those ugly, block-like heels. If he hadn't seen her naked, he never would've guessed she had a nice rack under that ratty, oversized sweater. At least she was wearing the skirt--but she was standing in front of him, so it wasn't like he could see her ass. Her red hair was knotted and tied down into a messy, frizzy bun, and a pair of wire-rim glasses sat primly on her nose. She didn't wear make-up, but she must have bummed some mascara off of somebody because her eyelashes were black--not light, as they were naturally--and her lips looked a little pinker. She closed the door behind her and stood stiffly in front of his desk. In one hand, she held a pencil up to her mouth, gnawing on the end thoughtfully. He wanted to smirk and comment about her oral fixation, but that joke was getting old and she hadn't laughed at it yet.

"What can I do for you, Marilyn?"

_Marilyn._ God, what a waste of a sexy name.

"Ward 0651," she whispered, as if there were people listening outside the door.

"I'm sorry--what did you say?"

She cleared her throat and almost glared at him, taking a step forward. She said again, louder, "Ward 0651. I want to work with him."

He leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed in thought. Her eyes were bright and impatient behind her glasses; she took a cautious step closer.

"He's...he's the Joker, Jona--Dr. Crane."

He rolled his eyes and said that he knew that, even though he hadn't. Marilyn Monaghan was the only freak in this place who had all the ward assignments memorized. He sighed, adjusting his glasses and sitting up straight again.

"I believe I gave that assignment to Dr. Quinzel--"

_"I_ need to write a dissertation," her clipped voice edged on a command. His eyes widened a little, and then his jaw locked. He looked her over with his most pompous air, and she took an uneasy step back.

"Dr. Quinzel's already written her dissertation," he said, assuming a demeaning tone--just to get her riled. "She's a doctor. That's why she gets cherry assignments, and you don't."

She rolled her eyes, huffing a little sigh. She stared at a crack in the ceiling when she muttered, "I'll do whatever you want."

He smirked. "I love it when you say that."

Her expression brightened considerably; "So you'll do it, then? You'll switch me over?"

He shrugged ambiguously, but he could tell that she knew she'd be getting what she wanted. Almost gleefully, she closed the blinds in his office and returned to his desk; if he was stupid, he might think that she was giddy about doing him a favor, but he knew better. Getting to interview a psychotic murderer was the only thing on her mind.

He rolled his chair away from the desk, and she walked around to stand in front of him. Her entire body was tensed, and that bugged him. She couldn't even _pretend_ to enjoy the prospect of being with him for the sake of...gratitude, or what have you. Maybe he should just go back to visiting the sex addicts in the lower levels and forget the intern...At least she didn't run the risk of confessing her situation to one of his colleagues, causing him to have to pay off an obnoxious blackmail sum--most of which he'd have to borrow from loan sharks--eventually leading to an ass-kicking and public humiliation--

"Dr. Crane?"

He pulled himself out of his thoughts and looked up at her with a superior little smile. "Yes, Marilyn?"

"What do you...want?" God, must she _always _be so painfully inept?

He sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I have a meeting in around...ten minutes or so, so just be quick."

She might have glared at him as she lowered herself to her knees; he wasn't looking at her at the time. He could feel her fingers fiddling with the button on his pants--wasting time--and suddenly her gaze was on his face.

"You'll change the assignment?"

He glanced down, a little taken aback by the skepticism in her eyes. Seriously--had he ever _not_ come through for her? "I'll do it right now."

She watched his hands hover half-heartedly over his stacks of files.

"Ward 0651," she reminded insistently. That tone was bothering him.

_"Seven_ minutes, Marilyn."


	2. The Snake Pit

_Author's Note: Well, originally I wasn't going to bring the Joker in this soon, but...well, I saw TDK again today, and I feel a little more confident about writing his character. We'll see how it goes, and please--don't be afraid to be harsh on characterization!_

_Disclaimer: So I should maybe include that the italicized sections beneath the title are not my own creations. Last chapter was a few lines from the song "Fever" by Peggy Lee (apparently, Michael Buble re-did it recently?), and this chapter's is from Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."_

**

* * *

Fever.**

_You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns  
When they all did tricks for you  
You never understood that it ain't no good  
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you_

* * *

**_The Snake Pit_**

She took a deep breath before reaching for the doorknob of Room 0651. Her back was rigid, and her knuckles went white as she began to open the recently unlocked door. She could feel the eyes of the armed guard, and tried not to look annoyed when she glanced up at him.

"I'm right out here if you ever feel the least bit unsafe," he reassured her. "On the table, there's a little red button--and there's another on the wall. So if you're in a situation where...I mean, God forbid, you can't make a sound--just push the button, and I'll be right in." She wanted to roll her eyes, but her insides were shaking. She nodded quickly and pushed the heavy, steel barrier open, stepping inside. The door _clanked_ behind her, and she suddenly felt very trapped.

The room was cold. Her footsteps echoed obnoxiously in her ears as she crossed the room to the table and chairs set up by the window. She stacked her files neatly beside the emergency button, her breath catching in her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the man laying on his cot. He was apparently awake, staring up at the ceiling and whistling some tune that she didn't recognize, and seemed to be ignoring her. She took a seat, placing her files neatly in front of her. With a friendly smile, she turned to face him.

"Good afternoon. How are you doing today?"

He slowly shifted his gaze to her, twisting his neck to look her over. His mouth was grim. She could feel his eyes tracing over her body, his face set in a slightly disgusted expression. Her smile faded as a minute passed. Clearing her throat, she glanced down at her paperwork.

"Well...We don't know too much about you. You don't carry any identification...what would you like me to refer to you as?" Her throat felt very dry. But she smiled again, meeting his expressionless eyes with attempted serenity.

He pursed his lips, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. "So _you're_ the shrink, huh?"

She smiled. "Yes. My name is Marilyn Monaghan. You can call me Marilyn--or Miss Monaghan...whatever you like. I'm here to talk with you."

"'Miss' Monaghan?" his expression soured a little. "Not _Dr._ Monaghan?"

She glanced at her feet before looking at him again, a fake smile plastered on her face. "No, not yet."

His eyes drifted to the wall; she could barely make out his muttering, "Well that's just down-right insulting, _--t's_ what that is."

He smacked his lips and turned his drowsy gaze back to hers. "You can just call me the Joker."

He shifted on the mattress to stare at the ceiling again.

She laughed--a nervous, quiet laugh that may have irritated him. "I don't suppose that's what your mother called you."

"My mother called my an _ahhh_-ful little shit."

She leaned forward a little, clicking her pen and holding it eagerly over her notepad. "Did your mother often talk to you like that? Call you names?"

He kept his eyes plastered to the wall. "I don't want to talk about my mother."

She nodded, unabashed. "Alright. Then what would you like to talk about?"

He snorted. His whole body shifted this time, when he turned to look at her. He laid on his side, propping his head up on one fist, a wide--_too wide_--grin stretching across his painted face. He fixed his gaze like a well-aimed automatic at her uncrossed legs, watching her fingers tighten on the pen and her throat twitch and those legs cross over one another. His amused eyes darted up to hers.

"Let's talk about _youuuu."_

Her lips went pale, but she forced them into a smile. She nodded stiffly, refusing to retreat her gaze. "Alright," she whispered cautiously. "What about me?"

"Your smile," he said, glaring at her mouth. "It's just so...forced, you know. So..." He hooked a forefinger inside either corner of his mouth and pulled his lips taut, flashing his bared, yellow teeth at her. He held held his face like that a moment longer before slipping his fingers out of his mouth. He moaned quietly, pursing his lips and touching the sides of his face tenderly. He glanced up and shook his head. "No, I don't like that. I don't like that one bit. How do you _stand_ it, Marilyn? It's so painful. So-so-so-so _painful._ It should _never_ hurt to smile."

She pressed her lips together, glancing down at her notepad. He giggled, high and obnoxious, the noise clattering against the walls and floor and ceiling. She winced, but only for a moment, returning her expression quickly back to a friendly neutral.

"Ha, ah!" he gasped for his breath, squeezing out a few more ugly guffahs before settling himself into a sort of calm. "Ah, Mary-baby, you really are _funny._ I bet you're a real...fun-time gal!"

He cracked himself up, bursting into another fit of crazed chortles. Marilyn cleared her throat, her muscles visibly tensing. His body doubled over as laughter wracked his body. She sighed, writing something down on the pad. He stared at her curiously, his loud amusement quieting on the instant. He smacked his lips, sitting up slowly.

"You look so serious, Marilyn. Really. You oughtta lighten up. I mean, look at me," he chuckled, allowing a grin to take over his face, "I'm _always_ smiling!"

Marilyn leaned forward in interest. "You're talking about your scars."

He jumped to his feet. "Wanna know how I got 'em?"

She stared into his dark, unreadable eyes. Even though he was smiling, something in their depths was grim and frozen. Her stomach churned, but she nodded, her pen ready in her hand.

He flew across the room. Before she was even fully aware of what was happening, he'd ripped the pen out of her hand and had it shoved lengthwise between her lips. He held her chin firmly in one gloved hand--the other stroked the side of her face. He shushed her, gazing firmly into her eyes. She didn't look away, inching her hand slowly towards the button on the table.

"It went...well, it went kind of like this," he ran his tongue over his lips, glancing up at the ceiling thoughtfully. Marilyn's fingers found the button, but she did not press it--not yet. "I was a psychology student--like _you_--and I had an internship in an asylum for the _crrrr_-iminally insane." He smacked his lips, returning his gaze back to hers. "And I, uh, I was assigned to analyze this guy who was a professional torturer for the Mob. Now this man was so dangerous, _soo_ dangerous, that they couldn't even give him any silverware to eat with. In prison--now this is _good,_ Marilyn--in prison, he sharpened the edges of a spoon with his teeth and killed another guy. So they told me not to take anything to write with when I went to see him. But--_like you_--I was arrogant...and _ssstupid,_ and brought a pen. A fountain pen."

Marilyn's fingers twitched on the button. Her eyes strayed down from his, focusing on the ragged, uneven ridges of his scars. Something in her gut tightened, and her mind screamed at her fingers to press down--to bring the security guard in and end this. She saw herself, her mouth split wide open in a ghoulish grin. She squeezed her eyes shut, dismissing the image, trying to focus._ Press down, press down, pressdown, pressdownpressdownpress--_

"Hey, hey, hey." He patted her cheek until she opened her eyes. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Now, Mary, you really oughtta listen. It's a good story." His fingers twisted in her hair, jerking her head back at an uncomfortable angle. "Are you_ listening_ now?"

She swallowed uneasily and tried to nod. He grinned.

"So as I was saying--I brought a pen in. And things went alright for about...ohhhh...ten, fifteen minutes. I was listening to him real good, writing down everything he said, and then he told me this joke. Would you like to hear the joke?"

He jerked her head back and forth in a puppet's nod. "Of course you would. He said, 'What is a snake's favorite subject?' Do you know what it is?"

He was obliged to shake her head for her. "No? It's _hisss-tory!"_

He laughed heartily at this, his rotten breath assaulting her face. She wrinkled her nose, and he shook his head at her. "Now, see, I made the same mistake you're making right now. I didn't laugh. I didn't even crack a smile. And so he said, 'What's the matter with you? You have a chip on your shoulder? _Huh?'_ And in ten seconds flat he had my pen shoved broad-ways in my mouth--_like this_--and he cut me a grin: first the one side--" he pressed the ink tip of the pen more firmly against the corner of her mouth. "--and then he flipped it around and did the other side."

He grinned, his lips twitching sporadically. "Now I see what's so funny about it." His voice dropped to a gutteral whisper, and his expression darkened considerably, "And then I_ always_ laughed at his jokes."

He ran his tongue over his lips, pulling the pen out of her mouth and releasing her. She touched her face with trembling fingers, staring steadily at the floor. He crossed the room quietly, taking a seat on his cot again. When she again found the courage to glance at him, he was holding her pen up to the light, twisting it this way and that, watching the gleam slide over the smooth surface.

"Are there any other stories you wanna hear right now, Mary?" he demanded in a low tone.

She gathered up her files in her arms, her body shaking as she stood to go.

"No. No, that will be all for today."

Her steps were quick and nervous as she hurried across the room. He waited until her hand was on the doorknob before asking:

"I don't suppose I should expect to see you again tomorrow, huh, toots?"

She took a breath, meeting his empty eyes as calmly as she could manage. "Yes," she blurted. "I'll be back tomorrow."

His eyebrows rose, and his mouth spread into its ugly grin. _"Well..._I'll be looking forward to that. Yes, it should certainly be a _pleasure." _


	3. Kidding

_Author's Note: I just thought I'd thank you all for your encouraging reviews--I certainly appreciate them!_

_Disclaimer: "No Sugar Tonight," The Guess Who._

* * *

**Fever.**

_Jocko says yes and I believe him  
When we talk about the things I say  
She hasn't got the faith or the guts to leave him  
When they're standing in each other's way_

* * *

**_Kidding_**

She slammed the door open and stormed right up to his desk, her burning blue gaze demanding that he hang up the phone _now._ He wasn't the kind of man that let other people intimidate him--_especially_ a cute little blonde with no visible sign of intelligence beyond her Doctorate. But he also wasn't about to continue a conversation with the underboss offering to buy a crate of Valium in her presence. He calmly, _politely,_ told the man on the other line that he would have to call him back--he had an emergency on his hands--and placed the reciever gently on the cradle. Folding his hands neatly on the desk, he looked up at his visitor and sighed lazily.

"What can I do for you today, Dr. Quinzel?"

She unclenched her jaw, straining for her last scraps of patience. "You've recently assigned an intern to my patient in my place."

His brow furrowed deeply, and he leafed through some files on his desk. "Your patient...?"

Her hands curled into fists at her side. "Ward 0651_--the Joker."_

His face brightened as if realization was just now hitting him--as if he hadn't been dreading her explosion since 8:30 that morning. He frowned thoughtfully, looking up at her with his most earnest eyes.

"He was yours? Really...?"

Her fists slammed on his desk, rustling a few papers. She leaned over his desk, glaring sharply into his eyes. He snorted, folding his arms over his chest arrogantly. His gaze took an obvious dive down her blouse before giving her an approving smirk. She didn't move an inch.

"Don't act so fucking coy, Crane," she hissed under her breath, still very aware of a sense of professional dignity and the door she had left wide open. "You know exactly what I'm talking about! An_ intern_ on a guy like that? You've got to be kidding me!"

His eyebrows rose, and he leaned back nonchalantly in his chair. "I don't kid, Harleen."

"He'll chew her up and spit her out in a week! She's in over her head--"

His eyelids lowered superiorly. "I felt that Ms. Monaghan displayed a sense maturity and resourcefulness that exceeded her lack of experience in the field."

"And how many hours does a girl have to spend on her knees to get that kind of review from you?" she bit loudly. His eyes narrowed, but he tilted his head to the side and fired back with all the deadliness of an even disposition and an unbatted eye:

"Are you making me an offer, Dr. Quinzel?"

Her entire body tensed. He could tell she wanted to hit him--but he glanced at the open door out of the corner of his eyes, and her jaw clenched. He couldn't help his satisfied smirk as she attempted to leer over him.

"Here's an offer, _Jonathan,_" she whispered darkly, "Twenty-five to life, no bail, no parole for the first ten years. Remember _that?"_

His face remained arrogantly expressionless, but his Adam's apple twitched. "Remember the headline that said, 'Harvey Dent Killed'?" She glanced down, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Those days are over, Harleen. Nobody's putting me behind bars. I'm more popular in this city than ever."

She shook her head, glaring at him fiercely. "If the Board wasn't made up of your mobster buddies and drunk colleagues, you'd be lucky to be cleaning toilets in this hospital."

He sighed loudly, looking her over with bored eyes. "If you didn't have a nice rack, you never would've passed your first psychology class." Her face twisted with malice, but he only mocked her with a shrug. "You get your jobs your way, and I'll get mine my way."

"Get off it, Crane." She was fed-up and looked it; her frayed nerves looked like fun to him. "That girl is not qualified to treat a man as sick as the Joker and you know it. Now you either give me my assignment back or you'll have a lawsuit on your hands."

He clicked his tongue, glancing down at his desk. He took a breath and jumped to his feet. In a few, swift moves, he was on the other side of the desk. She whirled around to face him in surprise, and he grabbed her by the wrists and and shoved her down onto the desk, sending files flying across the floor. A particularly sharp paperweight was digging into her shoulderblade when he shoved his body between her legs, disarming her easy shot at his groin before the thought of kneeing him could even enter her mind. His face was mere inches from hers; the cocky glow in his cold, pale eyes made her stomach drop.

"If I fucked you right now on this desk, with that door open, in plain sight of six witnesses--I _still _wouldn't see the inside of a jail cell," he glowered. "Don't presume to threaten me."

She pressed her lips together and stared back at him defiantly. He smiled, but his teeth were clenched and his grip on her wrists was too painful and desperate to belong to a fearless man. But he liked the feeling of her body beneath his--enjoyed the thrill of power he experienced from her malicious and impotent glare. She was a beautiful woman--too beautiful to be smart or creative or funny--but certainly an enjoyable enough venture in bed. Her eyes narrowed, as if she could read his thoughts.

"I just want my patient," she whispered carefully. He rose an eyebrow.

"Alright. I just want to hear you scream."

She didn't even blink, his crude request making her seethe inside. Taking a breath, she looked up at the ceiling and swallowed her pride. "Get off of me, Crane."

He wasn't ready just yet. "Giving up so soon, Quinzel?"

Her face was blank. "I guess so."

With a disappointed sigh, he released her. She didn't look at him as she left the room.


	4. The Many Faces of Eve

_Author's Note: So here it is: the big meeting between Harley and the Joker!_

_Disclaimer: "Stuck in the Middle With You," Stealer's Wheel._

* * *

**Fever.**

_It's so hard to keep this smile from my face  
'Cause I'm choking up all over the place  
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to my right  
Here I am: stuck in the middle with you_

* * *

**_The Many Faces of Eve_**

She didn't care what that slimy son of a bitch tried to strongarm her with--Harleen Quinzel had not worked her ass off at Berkley to lose the case study of the century to a slutty little intern. She walked confidently down the dark hallway, the _click-click-click_ of her heels echoing off of the too-white walls. She glanced at her wrist, squinting to read the numbers on the dial. Her contacts were getting dry--she'd usually be in bed by now, but there was no other time to work.

She stopped succintly in front of Room 0651, meeting the sleepy gaze of the night watchman. He looked her over and sighed. "Something I can help you with?"

She handed him her ID. "My name's Dr. Quinzel. I'm a psycho-analyst here."

He blinked and handed the card back. "I'm sorry, Dr. Quinzel, but nobody's allowed in to see a patient unless they're on the list. I know the list. And you ain't on it, baby."

She rolled her eyes and slid her purse off her shoulder. She thumbed a few twenties out of her billfold and held them out to him. "Am I on the list now?"

He pocketed the money with a grin. "Well, I'll be damned if I forgot Dr. Quinzel."

_The corruption in this freaking town..._

She sighed, forcing a little smile as he entered a code and unlocked the heavy steel door. The room was entirely dark as she stepped inside. Taking a breath, she reached for the lightswitch on the side of the wall. Just as her fingertips brushed the knob, a calloused hand stopped her, weaving its fingers through hers. She yelped in surprise as an arm wound itself around her waist, jerking her against a solid, warm something. She felt two fingers press firmly against the pulse in her neck.

"Don't you think it's, ah, a little bit _rude_ to go barging in on people in the middle of the.._nigh_t?" a strange voice whispered in her ear. The warm, stinking breath clung to her skin, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

"You're right," she managed as calmly as she could, "it was rude. I'm sorry. Will you let go of me so we can talk?"

His ragged breathing errupted into laughter. In the extraordinary blackness of the room, she wondered if she was being held by a cartoon character.

"We're talking right now!" he giggled. He gripped her tighter, and she gasped sharply for her breath. She could feel the ridges of his scarred cheek against hers; the chafing paint itched against her skin. "What's wrong with talking _like_, uh, this?"

Her mouth twitched, her mind speeding through excuses to find something logical. "I like to look people in the eye when I talk to them."

_"Ohhh."_ He couldn't hold back his amusement. "Oh, ho, ho. Is that why you, uh, sneak in on them in the, uh..._dark?"_

She scoffed a little. "Got to get up pretty early in the morning to slip one passed you, huh?"

"Or stay up pretty...huh, late."

She swallowed, attempting to scan the room. The combination of extreme darkness and dry contacts made the feat virtually impossible. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to quiet her ever-escalading nerves. Think clearly. She had to think clearly--

But the noise of his heavy breath in her ear drowned out her thoughts.

_"Soooo..."_ He smacked his lips loudly. "You're not the little, ahh..._red_ they sent me earlier. You're not my Mary-_lyn."_

"No. I'm Dr. Quinzel."

His grip slackened a little. She could almost feel his gaze as he cocked his head around to look at her. "Doctor...Doc-_tor._ I get a doctor at night and dumb...broad during the day. This's a back_-a-_wards place, Doc."

She took a breath. The words were tumbling out of her mouth before she had time to deny the temptation:

"Maybe you'd like to leave it, then."

His back arched, he threw his head back and laughed outrageously. His body shook against hers, the obnoxious noise sending tremors up and down her spine. It seemed as if entirely too much time had passed before he managed to quiet himself.

_"Hoo_-boy, Quinzel," he gasped. His arms tightened suddenly, fingernails digging into that spot on her throat. She gagged as his forearm pushed into her stomach, forcing her to labor for her breath.

"Now, _realllly,"_ his voice was calm--tacitern, even--as she gulped for air in his clutches. "Don't you think I coulda walked out of here sixteen different ways by now?"

She was too focused on breathing to bother trying to talk. In a sudden movement, she was released--but she could hardly enjoy the relief of her restraint as she was shoved violently to the floor. She heard her wrist _crack_ loudly, and a sickening feeling filled her gut. The room from black to very, very bright, and she groaned a little, trying to make out his form against the flourescent lights.

He squatted down, crab-walking awkwardly over to where she lay. She pulled herself up gently, wincing as little sparks of pain zinged through her body. She met his face with bleary eyes, struggling to make out features in the mess of white and red and black.

"Why don't you tell me why you're really here, Doc...uh, Quinzel," he opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish, a strange frown creasing his brow. "Quinzel, Quinzel, Quinzel, Quin-_zuhllll_...Do you have a, mm, first name, Doc?"

She managed to sit down, cross-legged, holding her head in her hands. The blurred world around her was producing an enormous headache. "Harleen."

His fit of laughter only jarred her pained nerves even more. "Harleen! Har-_leeeeen!_ Tell me, did they, uh, just--just call you 'Harley' in school?" His high-pitched chortles slammed against her ears. He mimicked the sound of a revved engine. "Were you a, uh--_hoo_--an easy rider?"

She shot the mess of his face a dark glare. He grinned, reaching out a finger to poke her shoulder. "Does Crane, uh..._stick i-t_ to you like he does the dumb one?"

Her head perked up. She wanted so desperately to make out his eyes in the smears of black--to cross-examine the truth in his words. "She _told_ you that?"

His giggles pinched her ears. "Oh, come _onnn_...It was all over her, ha, face!"

He bent over, succumbing to raucaus laughter. She sighed, waiting for it to end--but he stopped abruptly, his eyes darting up to hers. His smile faded, and she could feel the grim sobreity in his studious gaze.

"What brought you here in the middle of the night, Harley?" he asked hoarsely, his voice low and deadly serious. She blinked rapidly, heaving a sigh. She tried to look him in th eye--but it was a mere guess.

"I want...revenge," she managed quietly. The words felt foreign and stupid in her mouth. But he nodded slowly, knowingly:

"And you were gonna...ahh...offer me my_ freedom..._to help you?" He watched her head barely decline in a nod. "I'm not, huh, int-_er-_ested in freedom just yet, Harley."

She pressed her lips into a tight line. Her stomach churned with guilt and exhileration. "Then what interests you?"

He scoffed, a grin fleeting over his face. "Your...uh, well for starters, your _mind_. I want to read your mind-_duh."_

She swallowed difficultly. "So what does that...mean?"

"Come again tomorrow night,_ Harley."_


	5. Exploitable Resource

_Disclaimer: And another shot from Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."_

* * *

**Fever.**

_You say you never compromised  
With the mystery tramp but now you realized  
He's not selling any alibis  
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes  
And say, "Do you want to make a deal?"_

* * *

**_Exploitable Resource_**

"I'm _not _going back in there."

Dr. Crane glanced up from his files distractedly. He didn't even bother to look Marilyn in the eye when he returned coldly:

"Yes you are."

She was trembling. "Doctor...Jonathan, please."

His glare flashed up to her. Her throat jerked, and she shifted her weight nervously. "I'm your boss, Marilyn, not your boyfriend, and I have no sympathy for you whatsoever. You begged for this sick bastard and I gave him to you. And then I was forced to deal with Dr. Quinzel because the reassignment upset her--and I make it a point not to deal with Dr. Quinzel. So, _believe me,_ you're not high on my list, Ms. Monaghan."

She glanced at her fingernails and took a deep breath. "He just...he really scares me."

"I vouched for you."

She swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"If I let you step down the day after your first appointment with him, I'll look like an idiot," he continued coolly. "And I'm not an idiot, Marilyn."

She chewed on her lip, not quite looking at him. _God,_ she looked pathetic. She was wearing those pants again--the ones that were obviously two sizes too big--and some cheap polyester mess of a shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a bushy ponytail, and her signature librarian glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. He kind of wanted to hit her in the face.

He sighed, and his agitated eyes flicked to the door. "If I have him sedated, his answers may not be...genuine."

She nodded.

He took in a deep breath and glanced at his Rolex. "I have a lunch break in twenty minutes. I'll go have a visit with him."

"Thanks," she breathed, her eyes lighting with relief. He groaned, giving her a little glare.

"I don't like doing this, Marilyn."

She gazed back at him defiantly. "I wouldn't be asking you to do this if he didn't scare the, um...crap out of me."

"I don't know what you were expecting," he grumbled, turning his attention to the files on his desk. He began stacking them unnecessarily, giving her only the edge of his attention:

"I'll have him restrained when you go in this afternoon."

She held back a snort. He didn't hear her mutter under her breath: "A lot of good that'll probably do."

He watched her turn to go, and waited until she was at the door to tell her, "You owe me for this."

She glanced back and him and sighed, opening the door and letting herself out. He waited until she was well down the hall before standing up and leaving his office. He walked to the elevator and pressed the button that would take him to the basement, to the 0-Rooms. He strode confidently to Room 0651. The guard straightened his posture as soon as he met the expectant gaze.

"Dr. Crane--"

"Handcuffs."

The guard opened the door and followed Crane into the room. Crane barely honored his ward with a glance as the guard hoisted him to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back.

"Weh-heh-_hell,_ what an unexpected _honor."_ The patient mocked him with a raise of his eyebrows. "Dr. Crane."

The psychiatrist ignored him, glancing insistently at the guard. The Joker languidly complied to the jostling, allowing himself to be shoved into a chair. Crane stood nearby, setting his gaze between the bars on the window. He dismissed the guard with a nod, remaining silent until the door was closed behind him.

"To what do I owe this _pleasure?"_

Crane took a seat across from him, folding his hands on the table in front of them.

"Let's be very clear."

The Joker shook his head, his face contorting in an exaggerated expression of disgust. "Ah, but clarity is soo..._boring."_

Crane almost smiled. "It's always a show with you, isn't it? Well, unfortunately, I didn't come here to be entertained."

The Joker smacked his lips, arching his back against the chair. He let out a high-pitched chortle, giving the other man a grim smile. _"Onn_ the contrary, _Dr. Crane,_ I think you _did."_

"Always a show," he sighed. "But what would you do, _'Joker',_ if there was no one to watch your stupid Vaudville act?"

The Joker's brow furrowed; he frowned thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side. "Is that some kind of a, uh...threat?"

Crane smirked. "The only reason you're not in a straightjacket in a lonely little padded room is that people who have an _awful lot_ of money think you still might be useful. One word from me, and you're a vegetable."

The Joker ran his tongue over his lips, leaning forward animatedly. An amused grin intensified his bizarrely-accented features, and giggles shook his entire body.

_"Dr. Crane!"_ he screetched. He attempted to quiet himself, but only laughed louder. Crane glanced at his watch. "You and your friends think way too highly of me! Why, I'm just a, uh...you know what, look. I, uh, I'm not a...a, uh, exploitable resource. I'm hit-or-_miss,_ you know? Fly by the seat of my pants kinda guy--"

"I don't care what the fuck you are," Crane interrupted icily. "If you ever want to see the world outside this room again, you'll start behaving."

The Joker's face soured. Something dark, and deadly clouded his glare, and Crane's throat jerked nervously.

_"Don't. Interrupt. Me,"_ the Joker growled.

Crane's eyes darted between the door and the ward. Taking a breath, he adjusted his glasses and met the other man's eyes.

"I have the power to get you out of here," he told him quietly.

The Joker stared at the wall, apparently ignoring him. Crane stole one more glance at his watch and stood up. He tapped the table, giving the patient a snide little smile.

"Be nice to the intern."

The Joker lifted his head slowly, his empty gaze drilling holes into the other man's eyes. He looked as if he might speak, and for a moment Crane was sure he was going to. But he only grinned his broad, wicked grin, following the psychiatrist as he crossed the room.

"Au revior, _Doc."_


End file.
